Mudblood
by Autum
Summary: Please, leave me alone. She hated the whine in her voice, the desperation, the underlining, unspoken plea – don’t leave, don’t leave. Rating for language in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

You ruined everything, she had cried, feeling the words scratch her throat, tearing at her lungs.

He shrugged, turned away, left.

She had collapsed on the stairs, mascara lines betraying her traditional stubbornness as they traced the tear tracks on her face. She pushed the back of her hand under her reddened nose.

People were staring, sympathetic.

She needed to get out of the room. Out out out out out.

As calmly as she could, she pushed herself to her feet, wobbling in the expensive heels which, while elegant, were quite unnecessary. She silently cursed them as her ankle rolled, causing pain to shoot up her leg and pinprick behind her already tearing eyes.

Deep breath, deep breath, head up, stand tall. Slide out the front door.

Crumple.

The cold thundered in her lungs as she tore off the offensive shoes, leaving them empty and sullen, haphazardly discarded on the stairs. Without a thought to the lilac dress which floated around her lithe frame, she trampled out onto the wet grass surrounding the castle.

She rushed to a tree, hidden behind the side of the building. With her back to the rough bark, she slid down the trunk, wincing as the sharp edges ruined the light fabric and tore at her delicate skin. Angry, thin welts rose on her pale skin, and as she cradled her head in her hands, drops of red blood fell into the muck in which she was crouched. Hissing as the hot liquid progressed down her back, she shook her head at the irony of it all.

Mudblood.

I am a mudblood. The words escaped her mouth, her voice cracking, barely above a whisper. For the first time, she accepted the term, believing all of the connotations.

Malfoy was right.

Granger, I never thought you would see the light.

Her head shot up. There he was, smirking at her tearstained face, shredded dress, mud splattered legs. Normally, she would have been embarrassed, angry, self righteous, but tonight she was defeated.

Go away, Malfoy.

He shrugged (like him), but stood his ground. Not like him.

Again, Go away Malfoy. Softer, gentler.

His eyes swept the scene before him, and he begrudgingly offered her his hand.

She ignored it, but began to examine him more closely. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, tie loosened around his neck, almost carelessly. His usually perfect hair was a slightly disheveled, but it still gleamed in the moonlight. He stood comfortably, at ease, with grace.

He was a ghost.

Her focus turned from his stance to his hand, still outstretched in a silent, momentary truce, and then to his face. The moon behind his head made his eyes hard to read, but the smirk was gone. No mask of superiority, no distain, no smirk. Replaced by what? Concern?

Suddenly ashamed, her head dropped to examine her hands, covered in dirt and wet and mud. Wouldn't want to dirty your pristine hands. The statement was emotionless – she couldn't put spite into her words, couldn't will it in, even though a part of her desperately wanted a ruthless flame of hate to offer edge to her voice. Wanted to frustrate him, make him leave her alone. Wanted him to stop pitying her.

His hand didn't waver.

Malfoy, please, leave me alone. She hated the whine in her voice, the desperation, the underlining, unspoken plea – don't leave, don't leave.

He heard it. Heard the silent message hidden behind her words. He heard it, and, in a move which even surprised himself, crouched down beside her broken form, dropping a hand into the mud. Straightening, he once again offered her his hand, which was now covered in dirty grime. Pristine? he asked.

Shocked, she stared at his hand, which was now smeared with the ground, unsure how to act. He laughed, you're supposed to take it, Granger. As the resident know-it-all, I thought you would have figured that out by now. His words lacked their traditional malice, and even though they still teased gently, it was friendly. Bizarre. Hesitantly, she reached her own, child-like hand into the air, slender fingers wrapping around his palm. His fingers closed around hers, the grains of dirt like sandpaper between them, and with a silent tug, he coaxed her off of the ground and to her feet.

She dropped his hand quickly, hugging her arms to her body, self conscious of her ruined dress and all too aware of the frost on the ground. Noticing her shiver and uncomfortable stance, he relinquished his suit jacket, draping it around her thin shoulders. Too cold to refuse, she embraced the warmth that it provided. Thank you. A whisper. And in return, a slight smile.

Letting her lead the way, he followed her to the double doors of the castle. They stood awkwardly in the soft glow of the entrance candles, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets while she rocked slightly on the balls of her feet. He noticed her previously discarded shoes, and picked them up, offering them out to her. She extended her arm from under his coat, accepting the heels silently. Almost reluctantly, she slid out of the dark jacket, ashamed of how dirty she had made it. She did not meet his gaze. He reached into his pants pocket, drew his wand, and scourgified the coat clean, donning it once again.

Well, he said.

Well, she echoed.

He edged closer to her thin frame, so close she was sure he was going to touch her, was going to knock her over or kiss her or push her or embrace her or something equally frightening. He brought his face down to hers, past her lips, over her cheek, to nuzzle the soft skin of her ear.

He is a fool.

And with a swish of his coat, he was gone, leaving her breathless and alone in the crisp air of the winter night,


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I didn't know I was going to write more than that first chapter. It was inspired by the song "I Go To the Barn Because I Like The" by Band of Horses. Specifically the line, "I'll be outside, on your doorstep, in a worn out suit and tie…"**

I had been two years since that night. She saw him around, prowling the halls, gliding through doorways, leaning casually against stone walls. He was still the same. Still frustratingly arrogant, still coldly isolated, still untouchable, still perfect. She watched him from beneath her eyelashes, observed him across the Great Hall, sitting with his followers.

Sometimes, he would glance her way, meet her eye, raise an eyebrow, smirk. She would, in a familiar motion, drop her head, redden, turn back to her conversation.

That night was a dream. It must have been.

Harry was obsessed with him. But then again, so was she. He had showed her that he had a soul, some morals, a conscious. She was intrigued. Apparently, he wasn't. Still, she couldn't help but secretly root for him, telling Harry to back off, nothing's happening, Malfoy's not involved. She watched him deteriorate slowly – so slowly that she would have missed it if she hadn't been looking closely. Saw him pale sickeningly, saw the purple bags under his eyes grow.

She was worried about him.

It didn't take her long to figure out that he spent his time in the Room of Requirement. Sometimes, she would walk past the door, knowing that he was inside, doing God-knows-what, dying behind the wall. She would even wander, back-and-forth, three times: Show me a place where I could help him. Show me a place where I could help him. She would allow herself to touch her hand to the door, palm flat against the surface. Then, she would turn away, leaving him alone with his mission and condemning herself to her thoughts.

She hid in the library when things got to stressful for her, when Harry and Ron were too much to handle, when homework became overwhelming. She enjoyed the quiet and soaked in the knowledge enclosed in the musty tomes. The atmosphere was comfortable. She loved it. Loved a book and a cozy chair. A parchment and a quill. It was perfect.

Granger.

He said it softly, nervously. He was trying to casual, typical, but it wasn't working. Odd. She glanced up from the pages of her text, saw him shifting his weight in front of her.

What do you want, Malfoy?

I need your help.

She felt her eyebrows shoot way up on her forehead, moving on their own regard.

Pardon?

Don't make me ask again.

She watched him squirm under her eyes. Remembering how he had helped her, she focused again on her book, offering him relief from her inquisitive stare. Fair enough, she shrugged. Don't let him see how much this means to you. Be apathetic. What can I do for you?

Come with me.

Against her better judgment, she complied. Alright, lead the way.

If anyone thought it was odd that the two left the library, swept down the halls, and marched up the stairs together, they didn't say anything. She was torn. On the one hand, he finally trusted her; on the other, it could easily be a trap. He was who he was, and she was who she was – it was black and white. That one evening changed nothing. Lost in her thoughts, she did not recognize where they were going until they got there - the Room of Requirement.

Open it.

She turned to him, incredulous. With what intention? Her eyes searched his, and he repeated, Open it.

She rolled her eyes slightly, then closed them. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Show me a place where I can help him. Show me a place where I can help him.

A commonplace, wooden door materialized in front of them. Like she had done so often, she placed her palm on the door, feeling the texture of the wood grain rough beneath her fingers. This time, she pushed it open, and it swung in with an ease acquired from multiple uses. Inside, a towering room sprawled out before them. She walked in with wonder, and he followed a few steps behind. There was a thick carpet on the ground, two overstuffed loveseats, a crackling fire, a wardrobe. A round coffee table with a leather-bound book placed upon it. The room was comfortable in the same way the library was, or the way a bedroom would be. Personal. The two students spread out, each examining the room furnishings; she approached the table and the book, while he studied the wardrobe.

Not bad, Granger. Not bad at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, the fact that there are no quotations marking when characters are speaking was done on purpose. I want it to feel a bit confusing, as if you cant quite tell what is happening inside her head, and what isn't. Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to symbolize dialogue in literature. **

**Sorry this is short, it pretty much only gets us where we need to go in terms of the story. Also, sorry it has been a while since I updated, finals happened and then I went home and life has been busy. **

**Enjoy.**

He did not need her anymore, not after she had shown him how to open the Room. He would be around the halls, the slytherin idol, joking, bullying, smirking one moment and then he would be gone. She was impressed with how sneaky he was – he would post lookouts who would faithfully warn him of the pedestrian traffic outside the wooden door and cozy room. And very few noticed.

Well, there was Harry, but he didn't count.

She did, of course, but then again, she knew what to look for. What he was doing in that room, she couldn't fathom, but it really didn't matter to her. He was looking better, healthier. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Somehow, she had gotten herself tangled in Malfoy's mess. She wanted him to succeed.

Cared about him.

This was an admission which she hardly made to herself, let alone verbalized, but it was there, crawling under the surface of her reality, threatening to wreck what she had worked six years to create.

She could identify it, but couldn't destroy it – it persisted past her most strenuous effort. More distressing, however, was that she found the more she examined it, categorized it, analyzed it, the less she minded. The more she accepted and welcomed it. She cared about Malfoy.

It was a feeling which went unshared.

He all but ignored her whenever they passed in the halls or shared a class. He had stopped insulting her, but she found that a lack of acknowledgement stung more than the sharp barbs of his words. She had served his purpose and was no longer necessary to him.

Still, sometimes they would lock eyes across a busy room. Grey and hazel. And he would nod, ever so slightly, and then turn away. A slight frown would pass over her face, and then it never happened.

These encounters left her unsettled. She could read almost anyone, but not him. His expression provided her with no clues, no hints as to what he was thinking. All she knew was when it happened, her stomach would drop and she could hear her heart in her ears. Often, she had to excuse her self, rush to the bathroom, and splash water on her face to halt her reaction.

Once, his eyes followed her out of the hall - she could feel them on her back. After crossing out of the line of vision from the tables, she pressed her forehead against the cool stone on the walls to clear her thoughts. She never got the chance, however, because a hand brushed against her shoulder.

She whirled to face him.

He took a quick step back, startled by her jumpiness, and then uttered the first two broken, hurried sentences he had spoken to her in months. Meet me tonight. There.

He searched her eyes to make sure she understood, and then strode off leisurely, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

She slumped, back against the stone, mulling over her scrambled thoughts.

Tonight. Merlin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, I have a midterm tomorrow and haven't really touched this story in ages, but I like it and it is unfinished, which is bothersome. One more chapter after this – I hope it is satisfactory…**

The halls were drafty. She clutched her arms to her chest to block the chill and took a deep breath. And another and then one more. She needed to clear her head so that she could concentrate on what she was about to do. Sneak off in the middle of the night to meet Draco Malfoy, of all people. She shook her head once, twice, to try to clear it.

The halls were barren, as far as she could tell from her vantage point in the crook between the stair and the Muggle Studies corridor. She could go back to her room, back to her bed, and get some sleep before her exam tomorrow, pretend that it never happened, that whole night after the Yule Ball and the Room of Requirement and the smoldering eye-lock and the my-name-is-Malfoy-and-I'm-going-to-sneak-up-on-you-and-freak-you-out thing.

She huffed at her spiraling mind. Who was she kidding? She was way too involved. And now it was now or never and she knew it, and he probably knew it too and there would be no turning back after this point.

One more breath, a glance right and then left, and then she hurried down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the wing of the castle that would lead her to him, trying all the while to look like she was supposed to be out at night hours past curfew.

Almost breathless, she reached the room, and after the customary procedure, squeaked the door open, slid in the room, and turned to barricade herself inside. She had succeeded in not surveying the room and now spun cautiously to do so.

He was not there.

Christ, she should have guessed. Stupid. She berated herself, stupid. He probably set her up, told some teacher that she was stalking the halls in order to get her in trouble, so that she would get detention or lose house points or something childish and stupid and mean and terrible and how dare he! How dare he play her emotions like this?!

Her face red with frustration, she spun on her heel to rush out of the room to the hall. She stormed down the hallway getting angrier and angrier at him, but mainly at herself, at how she trusted him and cared about him, feelings which were obviously misplaced. She rushed around a corner next to a picture frame with a sleeping brown dog inside when she crashed into someone and fell to the ground and oh Merlin she was in trouble and how dare he and Merlin Merlin Merlin, this is not good.

Jesus, Granger. Where in the world are you rushing off to? I asked you to meet me at the Room, remember? He pushed himself off the floor, brushed off his jacket, and offered her a hand to stand.

She ignored it, struggling to her feet. He shrugged and put his hand back in his pocket and, after seeing that she was alright, turned carelessly down the hallway to open the door for the second time that night. After you, Granger.

Face burning and head held high, she swept past him in a manner which was as aloof as she could muster, and perched on the farthest chair. The fire crackled before her and she watched the flames jump to and fro on the log that did not really burn.

I started it a while before you got here, but I didn't tell you when to come and I was hungry, so I headed down to the kitchen to get some food. You weren't planning on leaving were you? I mean, you aren't afraid of breaking the rules or anything, right?

The smirk was back. She could tell that he's teasing her and despite herself, she smiled. She rolled her eyes to hide the gesture, but it was too late, he'd seen and now he knew he'd won. He'd gotten the upper hand. His smirk grew and she mentally scolded herself. Deep breath, get a hold of yourself, it's just Draco. Malfoy, that is. Just Malfoy.

What do you want Mafoy?

Your company, Granger. Is that too much to ask?

Fight the blush, fight the blush. No, seriously. What do you want?

I am being serious. But I also want your opinion on something. I have been trying to get this spell right for ages, but I can't get it for the life of me and I figured that if I had to ask anyone for help, you would be the most knowledgeable. Plus, you owe me one.

She sat there blinking at him. Blinking and gaping. Mouth open, trying to catch flies gaping. W-what did you say, she sputtered. My opinion. On something important. You want my opinion. Mine. Right, I'm going to go now.

She stood up to leave, but he sidestepped to block the door, the smirk and the smile and the vigor leaving his face. He stood before her defeated, round shouldered, and he spoke the one word that showed her that even through the blushing, she had maintained the upper hand.

Please.

Hands fisted on her hips, she huffed to hide how much she was flattered, and shook her head to show her disapproval. Okay. I'll do it. What are you trying to do?

He grabbed her wrist to drag her over to the cabinet. She hadn't noticed it before, but it was broken and obviously bewitched. You want me to fix it? Why?

You can't tell anyone, you swear? No one. Hermione, I'm serious. No one.

He called her Hermione. Fine, fine, why?

He turned his head downcast, scuffled his shoes on the floor. It's for my mom, okay? Her birthday's coming up, and I just wanted to get something nice for her. This looks positively ancient, and nice too, if it weren't broken.

She couldn't help it, she had to laugh. The thought of Draco – were they really on a first name basis? – wrapping up this armoire for his mother was hilarious. She couldn't stifle the chuckle and then neither could he and the two of them laughed properly, together. She was laughing, sharing a joke, with him. It was brilliant.

Okay, let's see what's going on. She rolled up her sleeves, took out her wand and approached the wardrobe. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the spells swimming on the wooden surface. Not all of the magic was particularly nice, either; some of it was downright evil, dark magic on her life. But he was so sincere, hovering over her, incredibly concerned and anxious for her success.

Almost about to admit defeat, she suddenly felt a jar in the pattern, discord, something off. She focused on it, feeling the magic, rolling it around on her tongue, tasting it in her mouth. Suddenly she knew the verse, and silently she magnified it in her mind, making it the biggest and brightest concept in her consciousness, allowing it to engulf her body and her spirit for just one moment and then, carefully, she funneled it out of her body, through her wand, and onto the dresser. The armoire glowed briefly and then dulled, but retained more life than it had before.

There. Now you can fix the outside framework without anything magical preventing you. I would suggest doing it by hand, more personal that way, but magic should work too.

Hermoine, you're bloody brilliant. And then his arm was around her waist and his hand pulled at her neck and his mouth was on hers and hungry and desperate and thankful and honest and she kissed him back just as passionately and she knew she should, but she couldn't stop. Her hands snaked up his back into his shiny, perfect hair, and she anchored herself there and he pressed against her and she against him and it was so unexpected and so exciting and so wrong that her mind protested, but she couldn't stop and then his hands were underneath her shirt, causing her skin to tingle and her hands were tugging at his belt and she couldn't stop or turn away, but she had too, she had too.

Breathless, she broke apart, pulled back, stared at the floor. Draco, what was that? He barked a sharp laugh. A kiss, Hermione, a kiss. Was that not obvious?

Well, I mean, of course, but, Merlin, what was that?

He moved to close the space between them, was so close that she could see every fleck of blue in his eyes, that she could smell him, could feel the heat radiating off his body. He bent down, kissed her softly on the lips, and then pulled back. That, Granger, and you might want to write this down, was a kiss. Was the thing that Weasel, frankly, lacks the balls to do. I've said it before and I'll say it again: he is a fool. A fool for letting you go. And, I know, I know, this will never work, not in this world. But I couldn't let you walk out that door without hearing this and feeling what I feel and I couldn't pass up this opportunity. So, I guess, that is that.

Her mind was reeling. What? What did he just say? That Ron was a fool for not kissing her? That he would, and had, because he wanted to? That if he weren't the Prince of Slytherin and she weren't the Princess of Gryffindor, that he would kiss her out in the open? That he was telling her how he felt?

Well?

His question hung in the air, and she, after a deep breath, closed the last of the space between then to capture his mouth on hers and then they were one again and stumbled backwards to fall on the loveseat and spent the rest of the night being next to each other, this once, moving in unison.

The far call of the early pre-breakfast bell shook them out of their reverie and they tumbled apart to hurry on their clothes and rearrange themselves in order to be respectable again. To once again be Malfoy the Slytherin and Hermione the Gryffindor, enemies by birth. She spun to leave, but he grabbed her wrist, turning her towards him to offer one more kiss. Remember, tell no one. You promised. See you around, Granger.

And with that, he was gone, and she was left in an empty room with only two small sofas, a half-fixed wardrobe, and a naïve heart to keep her company.


	5. Chapter 5

She gasped for air, but couldn't breathe

**A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to update, life is busy. Enjoy. Also, for language reasons, the rating has changed.**

She gasped for air, but couldn't breathe. Her lungs were on fire and panic was quickly rising in her chest. No no no no no no no no no. Angry pain pricked behind her closed eyelids. She hung her head, defeated, and her nose quickly congested. She tried to sniff discreetly, an attempt to clear away the pain and the hurt and the disbelief, but it was no use.

Dumbledore was dead.

And it was all her fault.

Harry was shaking, recalling to his captive audience what Draco, no no, what Malfoy had said on the tower.

About the Room of Requirement.

Her fault.

About the broken wardrobe.

Her fault.

About how he worked ages to fix it, but couldn't. About how he almost gave up, but then had an epiphany, a breakthrough.

Her fault.

How he let in the Deatheaters to kill the only man who could stop Voldemort and save everyone.

Her. Fucking. Fault.

Never mind that he couldn't follow through, that Snape had to be the one to send the Killing Curse. That was insignificant.

Dumbledore was dead, it was her fucking fault, and she was going to be sick.

Because, fuck, he used her. Used her brutally. Twisted and manipulated her through her emotions, playing on her ability to forgive, to see the good in people. But now she realized. He was not good. He wasn't even a person. He was a snake. A snake with an ugly heart. And she would never forgive him.

That promise tasted bitter in her mouth.

Still, she was almost impressed by how cunning he was. How could he have foreseen back in fourth year, back at the Yule Ball, that he would have need her for this? She was almost impressed, but not quite. She hated him.

He didn't rat you out, her traitorous mind whispered. He could have, but he didn't. It would have destroyed you, everything you ever cherished. It would have wrecked your life, eliminated any credibility you had with the Order, and shattered your friendships. With Ron. With Harry.

He was too smart not to realize that.

So what game was he playing? Isn't that what he always wanted? To fuck her over? He had her mouth on the metaphorical curb, foot primed to stomp. He had her set up to be maimed. Yet he didn't follow through. Why?

Fuck. Why did it matter? She hated him.

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate.

A shaky sob was torn from Harry's body, snapping her mind back to the scene in front of her.

As hot tears streamed down the cheeks of her best friend, a broken, lonely hero, she was startled to find that a matching wetness pooled around her own lashes.

Dumbledore was dead.

It was her fault.

And she was going to fucking kill Malfoy.

**A/N: Hey, so this was going to be the last chapter, but I don't know now. What do you guys think? Also, this was written without my copy of the 6****th**** book, so I apologize about any factual errors.**


	6. Chapter 6

She felt the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking under her fist, and was instantly please that she had chosen to smash his face, giving him was she hoped would be a permanent disfigurement

**A/N: So this chapter happened pretty quickly because I knew what I wanted to have happen, and I couldn't wait to integrate it all together in a relatively short meeting. **

**Enjoy.**

She felt the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking under her fist, and was instantly pleased that she had chosen to smash his face, giving him was she hoped would be a permanent point of disfigurement. She had considered giving him a swift knee to the nads, but that pain would go away, and this flaw would be an insult to his vanity, not to mention his pride, for a long time, especially since the healers were working desperately to save the people who were hurt fighting Voldermort and his minions and had no time for little fuckers like Draco Malfoy.

The war had come to Hogwarts and it was her fault. No no no, it was Malfoy's fault. Maybe she should kick him in the balls for good measure. At least then he couldn't procreate. Those kids would be fucked up – it would be a mercy blow, really.

Fuck, Granger. Hot red blood seeped out from under his fingers. Good, she thought. Bleed. You deserve it. She was grimly pleased that she had seen a flash of his white-blonde hair as he slinked off alone when the fighting began, glad that Harry and Ron hadn't questioned her when she made an excuse to leave and fight elsewhere. She had a bone to pick with the youngest Malfoy, and hell if she was going to let him hide behind the cloaks of his father's cronies.

This. Is. Your. Fault. She hissed, venomous hatred dripping from her tongue. I can't fucking believe you.

Jesus, Granger. Malfoy's voice was muffled under the thickness of his blood and the cover of his hand. If I couldn't taste my blood in my mouth, I would be impressed. I always thought Weasel would be the first to properly punch me.

She could hear the smirk in his voice, even though she couldn't see it, which just made her even madder. He should not be able to keep up appearances, be so fucking cool under the pressure of this situation. Fuck, people were dying around them. She was in no mood to be mocked by him.

Shut the fuck up, Malfoy. Shut the fuck up. This whole thing is your fault. This whole past year has been your fault. My fault, she thought. Do you know what a trouble you've caused? Do you know how many people have died directly because of you?! Because of me, she thought. You don't know? Let me tell you. Fred. Moody. Dobby. Fuck, even Hedwig. And tonight isn't even partially over. If you survive, by some fucking cruel cosmic joke, I hope you know that all of these lives are on your head. On my head, she thought. I hope you wake up screaming, a cold sweat beaded on your forehead in regret of what you've done. Like what happens to me, she thought. But, she laughed, a joyless, sour, bitter sound, I fucking doubt it. Only a human with a soul could feel remorse. You aren't a human. You are a snake. A lowly, cruel, soulless, coward of a snake.

Watch it, Mudblood. Cold eyes of flint flashed. You don't know me. Don't you dare pretend you do.

Her breath caught in her throat following that word. Mudblood. He hadn't called her that since the Yule Ball. Since their supposed understanding. What a lie. Pain pricked behind her eyes, like it had so many times before. She was not going to cry because of him. She was not. However, try as she might, a single hot salty, treasonous tear leaked out of her left eye, tracking a clean line down her dirty face. Her weakness made her even angrier. She balled her fists.

Malfoy, she spat through gritted teeth, if you are represent what it means to be a true pureblood, I fucking thank my lucky stars to be born impure. You and your type make me physically ill, and it would be terrible to throw up every time I look in to the mirror.

An arched eyebrow rose. That doesn't happen already?

The pain in her knuckles was worth the surprise on his face and the fresh spurt of blood from his nose.

He didn't even try to stop the blood flow, but shook his head once, spraying t flecks of blood around him. You are pretty barbaric, Granger. Must have been all that time spent wandering in the woods with Potty and Weasel.

Fuck you, Malfoy. Do you know how much I had to abandon to wander the woods because of you? My parents, my education, my friends. All because of you.

She had hated the time she, Ron, and Harry had spent in the woods. She would have liked nothing more than to go back to school, read her books, graduate. But she couldn't; it was her fault they had to go on a wild goose chase for Horcruxes. She had desperately wanted to leave when Ron had, but couldn't abandon Harry. She had directly caused the death of his mentor, the person who knew where these fabled objects were, who could help them defeat Voldemort. She couldn't leave him alone to fend for himself. Often, she cried at night for her loss of innocence, a fact she was sure wasn't lost on Harry, but, when morning came, she raised her chin defiantly and persevered.

Do you know how much I had to sacrifice? Well, do you?!

His hands were around her neck, forcing her back to the cold stone wall behind them faster than she could have imagined. She struggled, but to no avail. He was simply too strong. Luckily, it was clear that he wasn't going to kill her, thank god. She dimly realized that he had taken her abuse without any physical retribution, that he could have murdered her if he had wanted, with or without magic.

Don't you fucking talk to me about sacrifice. You don't know anything about that word.

Before she had time to process his outburst, his mouth was on hers, all teeth and anger. She could taste the hot copper of his blood in her mouth. She tried to squirm away, but he would not let her. The kiss was so different than the one she had shared only minutes before with Ron; that was full of joy and life and possibility, and this dripped with malice and hatred and desire.

Then his mouth was gone. He looked at her with smoldering eyes full of a mixture malevolence and something she couldn't name, hands still circling her throat, her life at his mercy, daring her to say something.

Draco Malfoy, if I never see you again, it will be too soon.

His hands dropped to his sides like they were on fire. And then, with a sneer and a powerful spin, he was gone, off to go fight for the other side.

On its own regard, her right hand traveled past her quickly bruising neck to touch her bloody lower lip, which tasted metallic against her pink tongue, which had darted out of her mouth to examine the wound.

She wasn't sure who the blood belonged to. Probably to both of them.

Mudblood and Pure. Indistinguishable in her mouth.

With a heavy sigh, she slowly turned her back to the spot of their confrontation, and moved down the hallway to the shouts and the curses of the fight below, prepared, for the first time since the night Dumbledore died, to fight along side her friends as an equal.

**A/N: Okay, almost done. There will be a short epilogue following the framework that J.K. set out, but this is effectively it. I really wanted this to be a story which was possible under the stories of the book. **

**Thoughts about my success or failure?**


	7. Chapter 7

It was 3:55

**A/N: Okay, I know I said it was the time for the epilogue, but some things needed to be cleared up. I hope that this chapter helps.**

It was 3:55.

She thumbed the base of her left ring finger nervously, chewing on the inside of her cheek. The latter was a subconscious habit that she developed when she first arrived at Hogwarts, lonely and friendless, struggling to prove herself in a foreign world full of magic. The former tick was new – it had started yesterday.

That's where the ring would go.

She signed. He had crouched there, on one knee, all chivalry and hope, face pale with anticipation, hands outstretched, his left clutching her left, his right offering a lovely ring, a family heirloom that had been his Great Aunt's.

Marry me.

Her breath had caught, and she froze, a proverbial deer in the headlights.

Err.

She didn't know why she stalled. He was right there, real, heart thumping in his chest. She closed her eyes as pictures of her future flashed across her eyelids. Their wedding. A small, comfy home, worn in. Small, red headed children. Probably more than one. She as a Molly Weasly-esque figure, cooking and hemming and washing and cleaning and oh my god, she had thought, I can't do that, I can't give up everything I've ever worked for to be a housewife. No no, Merlin, no.

Her eyes fluttered open and she slowly pulled her hand away from his, his toothy grin faded to a small frown, searching her eyes for a glimmer of something he could hold on to. She smiled, a gesture full of regret, and he dropped his head to break the eye contact, shoulders round in defeat, a sigh heaving from his lips. She tugged on his arm, to sit him next to her, explaining that she just couldn't right now, that she loved him dearly, but she had too much invested in her own individual future, that she couldn't be a wife or a mother properly yet. That maybe, soon, she would be ready, but not right now.

He didn't meet her eyes, said he understood, that other people had suggested it, and with Harry and Ginny and all, he just thought that they could try it out, that it was worth asking, that he would be all right, he just needed some time. She smiled, knowingly, gave him a chaste kiss on his freckled cheek, and left her best friend, her almost fiancé, to mope on his own. That's just how he was, she knew. He would need some time to think about it, to mull over what she had to say, and then he would be okay. He would realize that all was not lost.

Later, she had sat on her bed in her small London flat, thinking about his offer and her reaction. How the image of docility had terrified her so badly, how he wouldn't expect her to be his mother, but rather his equal. That she could still work and be a wife, that he didn't necessarily want to get pregnant right away, that she could eventually be a mother when she was ready, that love meant sacrifice.

Sacrifice.

Shit. Malfoy. In a flash, she was right back to that night, the night that Voldemort was defeated. The night that Fred and Lupin and Tonks and Colin had died. The night that she had confronted him. She hadn't thought about that night for a while, but it immediately made her nauseous, for the loss was still to great too comprehend, the emotion was overwhelming. She had suffered nightmares for a few months following that fateful night, but then she successfully buried it under her seventh year course work, which she had thrown herself into when she went back to school to complete, and then in her work in the Ministry. She had successfully avoided Malfoy like the plague, and he her, leaving Hogwarts to live his life away from the school. Thinking back on that night, she could vividly remember the very last thing that he had said to her.

Don't you fucking talk to me about sacrifice. He had said. You don't know anything about that word.

She remembered exactly what she had felt at that precise moment, how angry, betrayed, ashamed, guilty, scared she was. She remembered the kiss, if you could call it that. She could almost taste the metal of the blood he had left in her mouth.

It took her a while to realize that the blood in her mouth was not imaginary at all, but a result of her pesky cheek-biting habit. Fuck. In a moment of clarity, she knew that she couldn't even consider marrying Ron until she cleared things up with Malfoy. She couldn't move on with her life until she got some sort of resolution.

And that was why she was here, a black owl feather clutched in her hand, eyes glued to the clock. She had owled him immediately to request a visit, not offering an explanation, not even really expecting a reply. He wrote back almost instantly, a scrap of paper torn from her original letter, tied to this feather. It had consisted of only the words tomorrow, 4:00 pm, and portkey scratched in familiar spidery black writing.

3:59. Fuck. This was a bad idea. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

As the second hand ticked closer, she knew that it was too late to refuse, that she was going to have to face him, after more than five years of hating him desperately or of being consciously indifferent or of forgetting him altogether.

4:00. She felt the familiar tug behind her bellybutton, and her feet lifted off the ground and she was spinning spinning spinning and she was going to be sick, she was always bad at this, and shit, she was going to fall over and embarrass herself, and she had to look perfect, and oh fuck what the hell was she doing this was an awful idea and then it was over.

Miraculously, she landed on her feet, tottered a bit, steadied and smoothed her shirt. She ran a hand over her hair, which in the process of the flight had come undone from its binds and frizzed away from her head, sticking out in every possible direction. Figures.

She looked around, noticing that she was alone in a deserted field, flat and stretching in every direction. She could barely see the tree line surrounding what she could only call a meadow. No place to hide, she thought. Why had Malfoy wanted to meet her here? And where was he, anyway?

A small pop sounded behind her, and, big breath in, turned to face him.

There was no mistaking him. He was taller, fuller, less angular but still with sharp features. His eyes were lined yet masked, and he had the same white-blonde hair as she remembered, shorter than it had been in school, but still perfect. His clothes were immaculate, which was intimidating even though it was what she had expected. The only noticeable flaw was his slightly crooked nose; unfortunately, it only made him look more menacing.

Granger.

Her name from his lips had no warmth to it. It was not a hello, not really even a greeting. He did not sound curious and it definitely was not a question. If anything, he sounded apathetic, bored. Her left eye spasmed a touch when she heard it, a twitch she was sure he had noticed, even though he said nothing, had no reaction at all - he was truly impassive.

Breathe in, she ordered herself. Malfoy, hello.

No nod, or smirk, or acknowledgement. Just silence. He waited for her to go on.

Not knowing what to say, or how to start, she blanched. How could she have come here? He obviously expected her to say something. To explain herself. What did she think was going to happen? He would see her and apologize and that would be that? Fat chance.

Umm, well, so. Ron proposed. She paled. Fuck, that was not right.

A sour smirk flashed across his features, but no humor shown in his eyes. And then, like it had never happened, he was blank again.

Congratulations. You were made for each other. Now, if you did not know, I am a very busy man, and if that was all you had to say, I would have preferred a written announcement. Actually, I would have preferred not to be notified at all, but I suppose my preferences were not taken into account. Now, if you will excuse me, I will be on my way.

Emotionless. He turned away, back to her, set to apparate.

No, no wait. Please.

He stiffened. They both heard the desperation in her voice. The same desperation that had been the catalyst for this whole mess back in their fourth year. Fuck.

He didn't turn around, but stopped, again waiting for what she had to say.

That wasn't it, I just, I can't, it's hard to articulate. She stammered, hating it. Look, why did you meet me here of all places?

They both knew it was a diversion tactic, that she needed a moment to collect herself, to pull herself together. She held her breath, waiting for him to get frustrated and leave. He didn't.

Making my own life away from school and the whole incident has been extremely difficult for me, and, to be completely honest, I did not care for you to know where I live and work especially since you were not exactly clear with your intentions for this meeting. For all I know, you could have had it in your mind to break my nose again.

Fair enough.

Silence.

How could he be so emotionally removed? She started chewing on her cheek, trying to relax, think of something to say.

Silence.

Okay, deep breath, deep breath. What's the worst he can do? Hex her? She doubted he would at this point, seeing as he already had ample time to do so, and besides, she could block pretty much anything he threw at her. No, no, it would be worse if he laughed, or didn't answer, or said something she didn't want to hear. What did she want to hear? She didn't know.

Breathe. Okay, so, Ron proposed to me.

You said that already.

Yes, thank you, I know. Ron proposed (he snorted, she continued) and I love him. I want to say yes.

So say yes.

I would, but I can't.

Silence.

Breathe. This was it. Why didn't you say that I was the one who had fixed the wardrobe that let in the Death Eaters? She held her breath, waiting for what he had to say, scared, but desperate.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he turned back to face her, one eyebrow raised in a perfect arch that was so disgustingly familiar, it was simultaneously comforting and sickening.

Silence.

Okay, well, why didn't you choke me or kill me or hex me when you had the chance?

Silence.

What did you mean about sacrifices? Her voice quieted, to the point where he had to lean in slightly to hear. Why did you kiss me?

Silence.

The lack of sound was so stark it hurt.

Right, well, I understand if you don't want to say anything. Silence. I mean, I didn't give you any warning. Silence. Okay, well, it was nice seeing you, I guess. Sorry about this whole thing. I'm just going to go.

She screwed her eyes shut to disapparate. Fuck fuck fuck.

Why does it matter?

Midturn, she stopped, anchoring herself firmly to the ground in the field, disoriented and a bit queasy from the aborted disapperation attempt, face flushed in embarrassment.

She didn't meet his eyes. I can't move on with my life until I know. I need some sort of closure.

He sucked in his breath, blowing the recycled air out of his nose in a gesture that suggested he had more inner tension than he would like to admit . Closure. Well, fuck, Granger. I don't know. What happened on that tower was a long time ago, almost, what is it, nine years now. It was a stressful situation, as I'm sure you could imagine. I was a scared little kid, bullied into something I didn't know I didn't want, faced with the prospect of murder. Part of me wanted to take all the credit, I guess, wanted to prove myself as capable. Going to you for help was enough of a blow to my pride as it was – I didn't need everyone to know I could not even perform this menial task on my own merit.

Oh, right, of course. Fuck. Was she surprised? This whole situation had nothing to do with her, she was an unknowing accessory to the crime. Even still, she felt incredibly empty. Okay, well, that's I all really wanted to know. Thanks. A lot. Really. For the second time, she went to disapperate.

The other part of me, he continued, wanted to protect you, I guess.

All the air was vacuumed out of her lungs as if there was a giant suction placed over her head. W-what?

He stared at the sky a few inches over her right shoulder. I had intentionally mixed you up in that whole mess without you knowledge, and I just couldn't bring myself to tell that to Dumbledore. I wanted him to die still thinking that you were his perfect student, his genius prodigy, the one with all the brains. I wanted him to think that I could manage on my own.

Oh.

What were the others? Why didn't I kill you in the castle? I don't know, honestly. I probably should have. I was angry enough to. Hell, I still bear the result of that encounter.

She winced.

I guess I thought that it was fair that you got a chance to hit me, in my own sick, twisted way. I understood the concept of retribution, especially then.

She nodded, her breath getting shallower and shallower.

Concerning, what was it, sacrifice? Well fuck, that's all my life has ever been. I'll spare you the sob story, but sacrifice has been a running theme through the story of my life. First with my childhood, then with my education, then my parents, then any goodness I might have ever contained ever. I didn't make very many choices for my self when I was young. It just took me until I was in too deep to realize.

She nodded, but couldn't breathe. There was one more question hanging in the air. The kiss.

I was a fucked up kid in a fucked up family. I have been paying those dues for a long time. I still am. I was never like you, you and Potter and Weasley. I never had that freedom. I hated you. Envied you. Resented you. Feared you and what you meant to my way of life. I don't know what you want me to say past that.

I'm sorry.

His grey eyes sparked with anger and his fists balled and his body tensed and fuck that was the wrong thing to say. His rage was palpating in the clearing.

Fuck your pity, Granger. Fuck that.

Quietly, softly, she mumbled that she didn't mean it, not like that, it wasn't meant to be condescending, not at all.

Chin raised, he nodded, flint for eyes. She had lost any connection that she had with him, he was slipping away, this was her only chance, and she still had another question. The question.

Draco, stop it, please. Just listen to me.

His faced snapped to hers, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. I don't know what fucking game you are playing, Granger, he sneered the name, but I am not going to be played like some fucking sap without a brain. Now, it is late and I have places to be. Good bye.

And with that, he was gone. Gone gone gone gone gone.

Fuck.

**A/N: Okay, this was freakkking huge. But it had to happen, I couldn't just rush to the epilogue without some sort on intermediate step. Anyway, I hated the epilogue in the book, ruined the ending, in my opinion, and it wouldn't make any sense to jump straight there. **

**I apologize for any fanfiction clichés in here. I tried my hardest to stay away from them, but I didn't know what else to do at some points that the book doesn't cover. **

**Also, I realize that I just updated the other day, but I am soo close to the end of this, and I want it to be coherent and orderly and it is in my brain right now, so there you go. Also, I have a 15 page paper to write for class, what great motivation. **

**I would like to know what you all thought about this. **


	8. Chapter 8

She had mixed feelings about that train

She had mixed feelings about that train. As a former student, she loved it; as a mother, she hated it. As an Order member, it made her queasy; as a member of the Ministry, it gave her hope.

It was all very emotionally confusing.

She waved tearfully at the train, the faces of her two children smiling back at her, their red hair stark against the masses of blondes and brunettes. They were Weaslys, after all. The train sprinted out of sight too quickly, heaving its mass away, coughing and wheezing as it went. Her arm stayed in the air until the train turned the first corner and vanished from sight.

Rosie was sixteen, brilliant, like her mother, and growing up quickly. Almost too quickly, if the gossip chain was to be believed. Snogging a nineteen year old boy! She snorted, wiping the moisture from her eyes. After five years, she thought that she'd at least get used to waving her children off, but memories of their destination were bittersweet.

She was more like Molly Weasley than she would like to admit.

Hugo, on the other hand, was the spiting image of his father, and took it on himself to carry on the family legacy of rule breaking and rebel rousing. He and James were inseparable, and along with Seamus' son and Pavarti's daughter, formed the next power clique. Armed with James' grandfather's map and his father's cloak, the four wreaked havoc on the castle, particularly on professor Zambini, who had been chosen to fill the potions positions and quickly became Slytherin's Head of House. He was as nasty as Snape had been, apparently, although she personally doubted it.

White hair flashed in the station, catching her attention. He aged well, which was not surprising, really. She remembered when she had seen him for the first time with Scorpius, who was in Rosie's year. It had been surprising, but he had been civil and so had she. And Harry. It took Ron sometime, but he, at least, was not forwardly aggressive.

Their eyes met across the crowed station. The intensity of his gaze monopolized her attention and, as if she were back in school, her stomach dropped. For a long moment, neither one blinked, but then he turned to his beautiful, dark haired wife, Lyra or something, not affectionate, but not distant either. She felt ill.

She excused herself from her reminiscing husband to find the bathroom, compose herself, get some air. Hunched over the sink, she looked at her face in the mirror. A middle-aged woman with unruly, taffy-colored waves, streaked faintly with lines of grey stared back through the glass. She noticed the crows-feet starting around her eyes, and in recognizing them, felt the loss of her youth. For a moment, she saw herself as eighteen again, fighting the ultimate evil, saving the world. She grinned ruefully, what a silly adolescence she had. Silly, yes, but desperately sad as well. Unfulfilling.

Deep breath, head shake to clear her thoughts. She splashed her face with a few handfuls of water, and patted her skin dry with a paper towel. With a glance to her reflection, she moved out to face the world. Back to reality.

He was outside the door, waiting for her.

She blinked at him. Malfoy, hello. The use of the surname was habitual, unintentional. He stiffened

Granger.

She ignored the formality of his greeting, ignored the use of her maiden, but not her married name. She tried to be friendly. How are you? A quick nod. How's Scorpius?

His eyes softened at the mention of his son. Scorpius? He's brilliant, athletic, well groomed.

She laughed, I've heard. Gives Rosie a run for her money, apparently. And Hugo says that he's a fantastic flyer but a total, oh, what's the phrase he used, bloody prat. And that his father bought his way on to the quiddich team, which was – she preformed air-quotes – totally unfair. Sounds like someone I used to know.

His mouth gaped open and she blinked at him seriously, one beat, two. Then, unexpectedly, Malfoy threw his head back and laughed, a sharp, bright true laugh. It was so unexpected that she snorted a little under her faux seriousness, covering the resulting giggle with her left hand, ducking her face, and reaching her right out to touch his upper arm over his cloak. A friendly symbol of a common past.

It took her a moment to realize that he had stopped laughing as soon as she made contact, that he froze, wasn't even breathing. It was the first physical contact they had made since the final battle, since his hands were wrapped around her throat and his lips were tugging at her mouth.

Well fuck. She tried to lift her hand away, but he clutched at it, desperately, holding it in his two smooth palms, pressing it to his chest. How did she get so close to him?

Do you remember your last question?

Her breath caught in her throat as she nodded. Why he had kissed her, that's right. The only question he hadn't answered. He dropped his head, eliminating eye contact and any insight she might have had into his feelings.

That night, and that time before, and I guess the Yule Ball too, well anyway. He took a deep breath. He was so close, was too close, how did he get so close? Her forearm was pressed against his chest, his feet centimeters away. He looked up, eyes full of emotion, of fear and hope, unshielded for a brief moment.

Her stomach dropped as if she were flying. She hated flying.

Well anyway, he repeated. I was nice to you at the Yule ball because Weasley wasn't. I kissed you in the room of requirement because I could save my family and myself, and, a pause, a searching look, I kissed you _that_ night, the night of the final battle, because, well, because I fell in love with you. With who you were and represented and because I knew I was going to die, probably, and I needed you to know, to make a choice, to help me make my own choice. Because, if I did die, I wanted it to be with your blood, your unpure blood, mixed with my own, to show defiance even if I couldn't openly fight them, the people you were fighting, because if I did die, I wanted it to be with your taste on my lips. Because, his eyes were desperate, because I couldn't sleep because of you and I needed to know if you felt the same. He dropped his eyes, and almost whispered, you obviously didn't. If I never see you again, you said, it would be too soon.

He broke the space between them and she felt like he took all the air with him. Her head was blank, but she couldn't let him just leave. She couldn't let him walk away.

Wait. Draco.

Almost before his first name, his real name was off her lips, his mouth was on hers. It was soft and kind and scared and timid and perfect and forbidden and passionate and so good but so wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong what about Ron?

He broke away before she could bring herself to do it. Look, I'm not looking to ruin your marriage. I'm sure you and Weasley are very happy, he sounded bitter, but, look, I need to know. Why did you call me, me of all people, when he proposed? Why was what I had to say so important to you?

She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't think of anything to say. I, uh, I don't know, to be honest, I just thought of you, right? I guess I, um, just wanted to clarify the situation from that night, you know? I was confused.

Hope flashed in his eyes. And it affected your relationship with Weasley?

She wanted to deny it, but couldn't. Yes.

Would things have been different if I had told you that I have always been interested in you? Could you imagine some backwards reality where we were here today waving off our own children? Or, not even that much, really. Can you even conceptualize you and me, off on a dinner date at the best, fanciest, most expensive restaurant, or, or, an intimate candle-lit dinner that I made myself, without the help of house elves?

He reached a hand through his hair, disgruntled.

Just, I know it would never happen now, it's far too late for all that, but I need to know. If, when we were in school, or even a few years ago, would you have been willing to give us a chance?

The truth? Probably not. I mean, I don't know what to say, really. We hated each other in school – it would have never worked. Don't give me that look, you know that the truth. After, oh man, I don't know, maybe. I was pretty betrayed by it all, even now, after all those years. You used me. It's complicated.

In the distance, she heard Ron's voice boom her name, searching for her. He was not really satisfied with her answer, she could tell, but she had nothing else to tell him and it was time for her to go.

She raised herself up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and as his head swung around and their eyes met, she whispered goodbye. His eyes, bright, shut slowly, and he nodded, once.

She walked backwards a pace and then, with a soft smile crinkling the corners of her eyes and tugging on the sides of her lips, turned and was gone, off to the red haired-boy who was her destiny and away from the man she loved, but left behind.

**AN: finallyyyyy, the end. Couldn't cope with not having it done. It was hand written a while ago, but my notes had been misplaced in my move, and well, it is only getting done now. Thanks for everything, and sorry for the errors I know are lurking in this chapter.**


End file.
